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Updated: May 10, 2025
"You know where old Farmer Brown lives, by the abandoned church, just outside of Perthville?" "Yes. That's seven miles out on the Osageville road." "Take the first turn to the right from his house, going west. It's an unused bye-road and it runs plumb into my cabin. There's a frying pan there ... and some flour ... and bacon ... tell you what ... it's been broken into several times.
"Appearances mean everything ... then, if you have the rest, the goods to deliver, there is no place a man might not go nor attain." I looked the small town reporter over in surprise. I studied him closely for the first time. He belonged to the world, not to Osageville ... the world of fashion, of smartness ... a world I despised. My world and his would always be like separate planets.
Then it would be too late for my schoolday, and I would make a day of it ... would perhaps get acquainted with some farmer and his family, have dinner and supper at his house, and swap yarns with him and the rest of his people. Jack Travers was as proud of my foot-trip to Osageville as if he had accomplished it himself.
Walking along the main street, I ran into Jack Travers, the young reporter who had dubbed me the "Vagabond Poet," the "Box-car Bard."... "Well, what are you up to now, Gregory?" "Nothing, only I'm thinking of a trip south to Osageville to pay a visit to Mackworth, the Kansas novelist." "That's the stuff ... I need another good story for the Era."
Two days before the play, as I was walking by the Bellman House, I saw Jarvis Alexander Mackworth standing there, come up from Osageville for a regents' conference.... "Hello!" the dear, good man called, "you heavenly bum! You starry young tramp!" His eyes were twinkling in appreciative merriment over his quaint phraseology. "What are you doing in Laurel, Mr. Mackworth?"
"Yes you devil!" I replied, fond of him, "you'd have had me reeling drunk, that last act, if I had listened to you." And I gave him an affectionate clout in the ribs. Again the professors were urging me to become more "regular" and pointing out the great career that awaited me if I only would work. There was some subsequent talk of sending the play to Osageville, Topeka, Kansas City....
With the coming of dawn the day cleared, the sun glistened on a thousand puddles, making them silver and gold.... By walking carefully on the side of the road, I made progress less muddy. I was used to the squashing of the water in my shoes. The weather turned warmer. I found myself on the usual long one-street called Main Street, in the prosperous little city of Osageville. It was Sunday.
The precious people, the aesthetic upstarts, make fun of Edison and his 'canned music, as they call it ... but I say Edison is one of the great forces for culture in America to-day. Everybody can't go to New York, London, Paris, Bayreuth ... not to Chicago even.... "Beauty must come to Osageville, since Osageville cannot come to Beauty." I was charmed. "Mr.
He had to come with me, through the mud, grumbling, to the edge of town. There, on the country road that led in the direction of Osageville, my feet rooted in gumbo, a sort of thick composite of clay and mud that clings to the feet in huge lumps, I had my photograph taken ... actually on the march toward my destination ... no hat on ... a copy of Keats in my hand. Travers waved me good-bye.
"I'm going to make it a sort of pilgrimage a-foot." "Great! 'Vagabond Poet' Pilgrims to Home of Celebrated Kansan. It's only ninety miles to Osageville from here ... still rather cold of nights ... but you'll find plenty of shelter by the way ... start to-day and I can get the story in in time for this Sunday's Era...." Travers got a camera from a fraternity brother.
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